


Training Exercise

by Dyeity



Series: Splice Narratives [5]
Category: Original Work
Genre: Child Abuse, Child Soldiers, Dismemberment, Genetic Disorders & Abnormalities, Genetic Engineering, Genetically Engineered Beings, Hemophilia, Medical Experimentation, Science Fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-18
Updated: 2018-06-18
Packaged: 2021-03-08 23:14:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,135
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27034759
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Dyeity/pseuds/Dyeity
Summary: IMPETUSThe singular splicing powerhouse in the Deep, known mostly to deal in ferals with The Circus. Distinct from the rest of the criminal underground, it is an enigma to even the Deep’s most influential and informed.It’s baron, referred to as Prometheus, is entirely unknown. All correspondence is done virtually and through intermediaries (typically hyper-intelligent ferals called chimera, and a man named Outis). Impetus is suspected to be the puppetmaster of the infamous assassin Deimos, who wiped out all competing splicers in Atlas post-Proscription.
Series: Splice Narratives [5]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1920862





	Training Exercise

Delta sat on the cold examination table, back ramrod straight, waiting with far more composure than a ten-year-old has any right to, the only sign he was a living the shallow rise and fall of his chest. Usually by this point, the scientists would have drawn his blood for testing or given him whatever new shot or pill they were trying this time. Instead, they meandered around the room, some enraptured by their data tablets, others fiddling with vials of various colors, killing time and burning nervous energy as they waited, and waited, and waited. Delta resisted the urge to join in this anxious fidgeting, curling his fingers around the lip of the table to avoid drumming on its surface. 

The med bay door slid open with a hydraulic hiss and disappeared into the wall, revealing Prometheus, head scientist and Delta’s creator. She entered, hands tucked neatly behind her back and head held high. She was not particularly tall, and her round face didn’t lend much to an air of intimidation, but as her muddy brown eyes slid around the room, all movement halted under the weight of her scrutiny. Outis, trailed in behind her. 

“Status?” Prometheus asked, voice smooth and hard like a river stone.

“There’s been no progress,” said Cynthist, the lead doctor and primary scientist in the medical bay. She stepped forward, handed her tablet to Prometheus, then moved her hands to her hips, staring at the device with obvious frustration. “Even when we manage to get the vectors past his immune system, all our corrections are seen as errors and undone by the DNA polymerase during cell replication.”

“Were you able to slow his metabolizing of the clotting factors at all?” Outis asked, frowning.

“Barely. It only lasts him about two days, three tops. Still, gene therapy seems to be a lost cause, so medication is the only viable treatment we have,” Cynthist said, crossing her arms.

“Take him off the treatment.”

Delta swallowed as his stomach sunk to his feet. One of the scientists dropped a vial. It shattered on the floor and filled the room with a sickly-sweet smell like cough syrup. Cynthist and Outis both turned to whoever was now offering mumbled apologies, but Prometheus looked at Delta. Delta stared back. He didn’t move, didn’t blink, just watched as she broke him apart, cell by cell. Delta was supposed to be perfect, was _made_ to be perfect. He wasn’t.

Outis decided he couldn’t buy any more time to recompose himself and turned away from the small, stinking mess in the back of the room.

“The medication might not be convenient, but it is workable,” Outis said, watching Prometheus carefully.

“I see no point wasting the resources,” she said, and Outis’s eyes pinched in response.

“Are you decommissioning him?” he asked. Delta tried not to hold his breath. He was a defect, he’d always known he was a defect. His decommissioning was a matter of when, not if. Prometheus didn’t answer. She was thinking. Outis took it as hesitance.

“Paradigm Delta’s aptitude scores are exceptionally high, and he’s showed a remarkable ability for adaptation. Even without the treatment, he may prove very useful.” Outis said. Delta noted the rush behind Outis’s words, the eagerness. Aside from being Prometheus’s right hand, Outis was also in charge of the lab’s intel, which meant anything from corporate espionage to political sabotage; anything to secure the lab's interests and ensure its perpetuation.

Prometheus hm’ed quietly and turned from the room. An indistinct gesture, but one Outis would take with liberty. Outis smiled to himself, shot an appraising glance at Delta, then followed her out. Delta stared after them, sucking in breath long and deep and silent through his nose. He clutched the table like a lifeline, and attempted to hang on to a level of composure to which he had no right.

* * *

Delta no longer took daily trips to the med bay. Instead, he spent hours on end in the simulation rooms, running through lessons on code and social conduct. He waited to see if they would eventually take him to the training room to resume the somewhat lax physical training that had been part of his usual regimen, but a week passed of nothing but encryptions and political scenarios under Outis’s careful tutelage. Realizing this shift in priorities, Delta devised an allotment of his own, between one scheduled block and another, to train independently. He had to eat quickly and lost approximately an hour of sleep, but those were negligible accommodations, necessary if he wished to remain an asset in Prometheus’s eyes.

The first time, he’d almost expected to be barred entry, but the door opened for him as it always had. He’d entered without hesitation, triggering the light sensors. The high ceiling lit in its entirety, brightening the large, spacious room, as white and smooth as everywhere else in the labs. He could make out the faint hexagonal lattice which allowed the main floor to be altered into various terrains or obstacles, by means of the control panel hidden in the wall on the opposite end of the room. A slight inset beside the control panel housed all the general equipment the subjects might need: throwing knives and blades of various sorts, along with blunt weapons, rope, and the like. There were no guns, but the stock panel did have a projectile weapon or two the last Delta had seen, though it had been too early in his training for him to use them.

He made his way to the back of the room, pushed the top of the panel, and stepped back as it lowered. His last lesson had been with the knives, so he’d work with those for the time being. Gathering a set, he went to the control panel, took a moment to understand the interface layout before clicking through the necessary screens to activate the targeting program. He took his place on the starting point which glowed faintly on the floor, the automated voice counted down, and thus began his new routine.

For the first few days no one bothered him. The training room was empty when he went, something he accounted to the lateness of the hour, and the scientists he passed in the hallways either paid him no mind at all or shot him glances with faint hints of something he couldn’t quite decipher. They made no moves to stop him, so he disregarded them. On the fifth day, when Delta opened the training room door, Outis was waiting for him. The bespectacled man had his arms crossed, his furrowed brow and scrunched nose giving him a sour look unsuited to his amicable face.

“Paradigm Delta, you’ve been using the training room without permission,” Outis said, his posture stiff.

“Has my room clearance changed?” Delta asked, calmly. The furrow in Outis’s brow deepened.

“Well, no, but you were not authorized to continue with physical training.”

“I had assumed the clearance was permission enough.” Delta stopped a frown before it could betray him.

“You assumed wrong,” Outis said, his tone clipped.

“I’m not allowed to train?”

Outis sighed.

“Prometheus has forbidden--”

“All medical treatment for his condition.” Outis’s head whipped to face Prometheus, who stood at the end of the hall. As she clicked her way towards them, he straightened up. Delta continued to stand at attention.

“I did not, however, forbid his physical training,” she said, holding her hands neatly in front of her.

“Prometheus,” Outis greeted, the irritation on his face receding into an aborted, wavering smile.

“Outis,” she said, nodding. “Is there a problem?”

“Paradigm Delta has been sneaking into the training room.”

“Sneaking?” She asked, tilting her head slightly. “Has he been skipping lessons?”

“Well, no, but--”

“He has clearance to the training room. Seems only reasonable that he should use it.”

A little glint of pride sparked in Delta’s chest. Prometheus was on his side. He stood up a little straighter.

“Reasonable,” Outis said in a huff. “Physical training puts him at immense risk of hurting himself.” 

“So you would like to field him with no means of defense?”

Outis hesitated. “You approved my schedule for him,” Outis said, his expression guarded.

“You wish to turn him into a spy, to have him do the work of an analyst or a computer or a politician,” she said, looking directly at Outis. “He’ll be very good at whatever such tasks you place before him, exceptional even, but millions did not go into his development so he could waste away running menial errands.”

“You’re selling him short.” Outis said, grimacing.

“ _I_ am?” she asked, cocking her head once more. Outis’s mouth snapped closed, becoming a tight line.

“You told me he was adaptable, Outis. Let’s see him adapt.” She turned, walking back the way she came. As Delta watched her go, the spark in his chest burned brighter, spreading warmth and light and tugging at the corners of his mouth. Prometheus saw potential in Delta.

* * *

There were a handful of scientists there that night, filling the room with idle chatter and paying him no mind save the occasional glances. Delta returned the favor, though did a markedly better job at keeping his attention to himself. After the conversation with Outis, Delta had begun to understand the looks they gave him. Outis was not the only scientist to think Delta’s training was a waste, an unnecessary risk, but what Prometheus had said was true. He was already a waste, the only way to make himself worth anything would be through risk. So, he trained.

Delta went to the supply panel, grabbed the bo staff, and moved to the center of the floor. It had been about a week since he’d started with the beginner exercises, and he felt ready to move on. After a short warm up, he attempted a spin. Simple, and relatively useless in an actual fight but, if Delta was honest with himself, a large reason for why he’d picked the weapon up at all. One of the few times he’d seen Paradigm Alpha, it had been with a bo staff, doing spins and tosses that made Delta’s head whirl. The way it had spun around Alpha in a blur like she wasn’t even touching it, like it was some violent energy that just surrounded her, had amazed Delta. Alpha had been amazing, and then she’d been gone, but Delta still remembered the bo staff. Delta had to bite back a smile as he spun the staff, faster and faster, and listened to the _whoosh_ of displaced air. He tried a toss, watched it cut up through the air, blurring into an intangible circle, a vague shadow against the solid glow of the ceiling, and went to grab it as it came back down. He misjudged the timing, grabbed before it was there. The staff smacked hard into the back of his hand.

It didn’t hurt at first. Delta snatched his hand back, jolting away as the staff clattered to the floor, bouncing from one end to the other. He stared at it until it was still, silent and unmoving. There were eyes on him, no longer just glances, but when he tried to meet them, they all looked away. His hand was throbbing at his side. He didn’t look at it.

Delta picked up the staff and walked to the supply panel. He pressed it with his injured hand, still not looking. As the panel lowered, he blinked away the tears that had begun to blur his vision and replaced the staff. He walked out of the silent training room, into the silent hallway, and continued to the med bay.

The door wouldn’t open. He could hear the vague sounds of motion and conversation inside, but no matter how many passes he made, no matter how long he stood in front of the sensors, it wouldn’t open, and no one came out. Delta didn’t know what he would have done if they had. There was no way they’d let him inside. Even if he had begged and pleaded, the scientists would not have seen him. He gave one last hard look at the door, and turned away.

* * *

His room was just like the rest of the lab: slick white walls, lighted ceilings, thin black lines cut deep into corners for ventilation, and glass, semi-transparent doors. It was square, not particularly large but he could lie flat with his arms above his head in either direction. The sleeping apparatus, tube-like with a glass cover and a soft gel mat inside, was the only thing in the room, placed directly in the center and facing the door. Delta looked at it and thought about sleeping. He’d ended his training early, but not early enough that he’d disrupt his sleep cycle, so he could sleep. He stayed where he was. The door slid closed behind him, and he leaned back against it. Slowly, he lowered himself to the ground and drew his knees to his chest.

An hour passed before he finally looked at the bruise. After that, he couldn’t look away. It was an angry purple band across the back of his right hand, and the longer he stared, the bigger it seemed to get, blooming up into his fingers and down his arm. It could kill him.

He stayed there all night, back pressed to the cold door, staring and waiting. By the morning, the whole back of his hand was bruised, his wrist stiff and sore. Outis saw it during that day’s lessons, but said nothing, simply turned from him with a deep frown. Delta was back in the training room that evening.

It was his first bruise off-treatment, but not the last. That came three years later, when he’d finally added projectiles to the obstacle courses he ran. Even after he stopped bruising, there was still that scorn in the scientists’ eyes whenever he picked up a weapon, still the sighs of exasperation from Outis heard through the training room door whenever the man passed. Delta was reckless, a threat to the investment that had been placed in him. There was always the threat of bleeding he couldn’t see, something he couldn’t control whether he trained or not. The unknown wounds, the ones he couldn’t learn to avoid, kept him up long after that last bruise had faded.

* * *

Outis was busy that day, unexpectedly. Something had happened, something outside the labs, outside of the cold white of its walls, that required both his and Prometheus’s attention. Delta’s lessons were cancelled. He went to the training room.

Unlike the evenings, the halls were full of scientists, motion and noise. Some of them glanced at Delta as he passed, but most simply ignored him, moving to their destinations with single-minded haste. There was a low hum of anxiety in the crowd, Delta assumed it stemmed from whatever incident was preoccupying Prometheus and Outis. Small snatches of context flitted through the halls, mentions of the field, tones carrying an edge or astonishment or both. Someone had died—given the atmosphere, someone important. It wasn’t Delta’s place to ask. He did his best to discard the curiosity.

The door to the training room opened. Delta paused, realizing the room was already in use. There were several scientists with monitoring tablets, observing a subject running a combat simulation on the floor. A countdown glowed above him, ticking down as the subject brutally executed the remaining holographic figures. The last target dissolved as the timer hit two and the subject stopped, shoulders heaving. A dinging filled the room, announcing time out, and the subject turned to look at him. Delta could make out the epsilon symbol embroidered on the breast of his shirt.

Superficially, all paradigm subjects followed the same basic template: same dark eyes, same light hair, same sharp features, though this subject’s were a degree softer, rounder. Their similarities ended with appearance. Delta had a year on the subject, a year of height and maturation and training; the subject had a year that allowed him to produce the clotting factors Delta lacked. Before Delta stood the perfect human, the new standard of evolution, The Paradigm.

As Delta turned to leave, he caught a ghost of amusement flitting across The Paradigm’s face. The scientist in the room had noticed Delta’s presence by that point, but said nothing. Delta could feel the eyes burning into him even after the door slid closed. He’d come back later, when the room was sure to be empty.

* * *

Delta had been running a decryption at the time of the summons. He considered finishing, briefly, but weighed the four-point-five second delay to be an extraneous waste of time. It was Prometheus’ summons, after all. He waved off the simulator as he stood and moved out into the hallway. He glanced at his cuff to check what direction he was meant to go, and he frowned slightly. Among the handful of rooms in which Delta was allowed, to the right was Prometheus’s office and the research labs, and to the left was the training room and his quarters. He hadn’t been summoned left in five years.

The little light on the thin white ring around his left wrist blinked up at him again. The walk to the training room was two minutes, thirty-five seconds from the simulation rooms, on average, a straight-shot down the near-seamless hallways.

The door to the training room hissed open. Thirteen people; Prometheus, Outis, The Paradigm, researchers and analysts with data-pads. Nine sets of eyes noted his presence as he passed. He stopped three feet from Prometheus and waited silently for instruction. Prometheus glanced at him, turning away from Outis. The black eyes regarded Delta down the beak-like nose of her mask for two-point-seven seconds. When she spoke, it was to the room.

“With Delta here, we can begin.” 

It had taken him one minute, forty seconds to arrive after receiving the summons. He felt The Paradigm’s eyes on him. He waited for Prometheus to continue, but she turned from him to address The Paradigm.

“Your objective is to subdue Delta. Your performance will be evaluated based on your efficiency. It is not necessary to kill him.”

The Paradigm could kill him.

“Delta, your objective is self-preservation.”

He was not to be evaluated.

“Pick a weapon and return to the training floor. Paradigm, the west end. Delta, east.”

“Understood,” The Paradigm said, the corners of his lips upturning as he made his way to the supply panel. He passed inches from Delta on his way to the floor with a blade and a grin; not a smile, a baring of teeth, a threat. He’d chosen a simple, serrated knife, 12-inches. No integrated shock capabilities, limited-to-no capacity to stun an opponent, good for tearing and drawing blood. Inefficient, given his objective. 

Delta inclined his head slightly, then went to the weapons himself. Blades were his preference, not The Paradigm’s. He would have been better off barehanded; internal bleeding presented Delta nearly as much risk as open-wounds. As he passed, Outis began to speak with Prometheus in a hushed tone.

“Given recent…events, some of the others feel it frivolous to expend a Paradigm subject on a training exercise, even one with a defect,” he said. She turned to Outis.

“I’ve allowed him ample time to train. If Delta cannot perform in a controlled environment, then whether or not he’s a paradigm is moot. I will not field another unreliable defect. I will not have another Beta situation.” she said coolly. Delta picked up his blade and started for the far-end of the training floor, near the door.

“Do we intend to treat him?” Outis’s tone was hard, pointed. _You_ , his tone said. Do _you_ intend to treat him? Delta’s steps faltered imperceptibly. He felt more eyes on his back.

“If he warrants it.”

Delta turned, taking a defensive stance. The Paradigm posture was easy, almost relaxed, though his face didn’t match his supposed ease. He wasn’t worried. He was the perfect subject, everything Delta should have been. The Paradigm's eyes glinted with a sort of mania. Delta could see it in the tightness of his smile and that look in his eyes. He was excited. Delta focused on his breathing.

In his peripherals, Prometheus stepped forward.

“Begin.”

The Paradigm shot across the arena with a yell, and all pretense of calm evaporated. Delta got his blade up in time to block, jumping back in a vain attempt to create space. The Paradigm kept coming, swinging and slashing, and Delta kept him at bay, dodging and deflecting. It was a game of attrition. This was to Delta’s advantage, wasn’t it? All his training amounted to speed and defense. Avoid, evade, never letting anything touch him. A touch could kill him. Even if The Paradigm’s attacks created opening after opening, better to play it safe. Delta was instructed to evade, that was all.

The Paradigm made a particularly aggressive thrust that left him exposed. Delta didn’t take the chance, instead dodging and shoving The Paradigm away. The Paradigm didn’t stumble, he wouldn’t, but he took several steps forward he otherwise would not have, before whipping around to get Delta in front of him again. His expression was odd, harsh, but when he realized Delta was at about seven feet away, he smiled.

“Why don’t you strike back?” The Paradigm asked. “Are you really so afraid of me?”

“It was a feint,” Delta said.

“Obviously, but an opening, nonetheless.”

“You’re exposing yourself on purpose.” Delta struggled to keep his tone even, but accusation bled in regardless.

“Why not? You’re too useless to take advantage of them.”

Delta’s frown deepened.

“Your objective--”

“To subdue you, yes, but…I was hoping you’d be a bit more engaging.” He sounded disappointed. His stance was lax again. “I would have thought you’d like to play, the toy soldier that you are.”

The Paradigm took a step to the side, which Delta mirrored.

“Toy soldier...” Delta said, quietly, through clenched teeth.

“You look like the part, act the part,” The Paradigm said, grinning wider and taking another step. “But are too delicate to _be_ the part.”

Slowly, the two had begun to circle each other around the floor.

“We’re not soldiers.” Delta said. The Paradigm’s grin widened.

“I am. You’re a plaything,” The Paradigm said. Prometheus stood behind him with her arms folded, seemingly unfazed by the match’s change in pace.

Delta’s grip grew tighter. His jaw was starting to hurt from his clenching it, and he couldn’t repress the heat bubbling in his chest. He might be defective, but he knew his faults. The Paradigm was reckless, unfocused, undeserving of his title. His brazen disregard made him more of a liability than Delta would ever be.

Delta decided there was a more efficient way to accomplish his objective.

The Paradigm must have seen a change, a shift in stance or expression, because his guard came up. Delta rushed him anyways, keeping low. The Paradigm swung, but Delta deflected it, using the motion to put him off balance as Delta hooked his blade around The Paradigm’s leg. He looked at Delta with wide eyes, but there was nothing he could do as Delta forced him away. Holding the Paradigm’s foot down with his own, Delta ripped his arm back, barely feeling the resistance as the blade slipped through tendons and between bone. It sliced through the kneecap and came free. Delta danced away, the momentum of the blade splattering bright red rivulets across the floor in a smooth arc. The room was filled with the sharp scent of copper.

There was a moment of silence.

The Paradigm began to scream. Delta watched as he writhed in pain and fury. The scientists rushed forward. Several of them tried and failed to restrain The Paradigm, who was still trying to get up, still swinging, still snarling at Delta, still screaming.

“Restrain him!” Outis yelled from somewhere behind him. Delta didn’t know if Outis’d been talking about The Paradigm or him, but someone activated the magnets in his cuffs regardless. His wrists and ankles came together with a _clink_ and he hit the floor with a _thump_. The same thing happened to The Paradigm’s wrists. For a moment, they were both on the floor and Delta caught his eye again. The Paradigm’s face was pale, and he continued to spit unintelligible threats and insults at Delta. With him bound, the scientists were able to get The Paradigm on a stretcher. As they carried him out the door, a sea of feet flooded around Delta to follow.

Shoes clicked. Delta looked up to see Prometheus looking down at him, Outis at her elbow.

“What do we do with him?” Outis asked, wringing his hands.

Prometheus held Delta’s gaze.

“Treat him.”


End file.
